Madame

by Antoni Libera

  It was an allegory of rejection and contempt. It said that unrequited love was something irrevocable: nothing could kindle it if it did not burn with its own flame, not curses or entreaties, not threats or violence. These two human elements cannot come together; nothing can bring them together. The more one attracts, the more the other repels. Unfulfilment. Unhappiness. The tragedy of loneliness.

  After a moment of tense silence there was another burst of applause. I looked down. This time she did applaud, but not as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience. I shifted my gaze towards the box where Freddy, opera glasses to his eyes, was observing the actors.

  When the applause finally died away, Phaedra, in a fury of injured pride, violently pushed Hippolytus away and left the stage, taking his sword with her. Shortly afterwards, like a bolt from the blue, came the news that Theseus was alive and just sailing into the harbour. Here the first half of the play ended.

  People began to get up and go out for the interval.

  My chin propped on my hands, I observed the stalls. She made no move. I thought at first she was only waiting for the crowd in the aisles and at the doors to thin out, but when the auditorium was almost empty and everyone (including Freddy) was gone, she remained where she was. What’s more, she resumed her study of the programme. It seemed clear that she intended to stay put for the whole interval.

  The opportunity was ideal; it was hard to imagine a better one. An almost empty auditorium, with her in it, alone, and almost fifteen minutes at my disposal. An utter reversal of the situation at the Zacheta Gallery. I felt another wave of apprehension and the rapid beating of my heart. A voice in my head, a voice that was becoming familiar, said, Now! Go down to her, quickly! What are you afraid of? If you can’t get up the courage in these conditions, you’ll never do it. And if you don’t, that means you’re not worthy of her. Follow the current! Drift! Blessed fog . . . Go on, what are you waiting for? There’s no time to lose; every second is precious! And approach her from the left, where the empty place is. Perhaps you’ll be watching the second half from there . . .

  I rose and made for the stairs.

  Although I thought I was walking with a firm step, the way down took longer than the way up had done. And when at last I looked through a door into the stalls, this was the sight that met my eyes: in the middle of the fourth row, in front of Madame and facing her, stood the director of the Service Culturel. They were talking. Or, rather, he was talking, animatedly and with much gesticulating, leaning slightly towards her, while she sat unmoved, gazing up at him and occasionally interjecting a word or two. When the bell rang for the end of the interval and the audience flowed back into the auditorium, the director straightened up and, with a glance at the central box, made gestures signifying that he had to go. Mouthing an ‘à bientôt!’ he backed out of the fourth row and disappeared. Shortly thereafter he duly reappeared in the central box, along with the ambassador and his wife.

  I ran back upstairs. On the way I encountered an usher and hurriedly bought a programme. I got back to my place just before the curtain rose. The place next to Madame was still empty. Freddy was leafing through his programme. I took a look as well. Just before the lights dimmed I glimpsed his name, somewhere at the top of a page.

  The second half of the play lacked the power and beauty of the first, although the acting was just as good, and executed at the same pace and rhythm. The reason probably lay in the nature of the play itself; for after Theseus’s return, as the course of events slowly rolls on towards the inevitable tragic end, the temperature drops and the suspense abates. The outcome is settled, preordained from the very first scene – the dialogue between Theseus and Phaedra. There is nothing, now, that can be repaired or undone. The catastrophe can only be delayed – by a game of pretence, by lying and concealment. But these no longer move one in the same way: the conspiracy of silence and the false accusations lack the power, the passion and the drama of the conflict between spirit and flesh, between duty and the heart. That, despite the costumes and the artificiality of form, had been powerful and true; the intrigues, ambiguities and insinuations which come later, however plausible, were too theatrical, too conventional, too predictable.

  Only two brief episodes flamed with the fire of the first half: Phaedra’s scene of jealousy, and the scene in which Hippolytus tries to convince Aricia to flee Troezen with him.

  Phaedra’s cry of incredulous horror when she hears Theseus say, during his tirade, that Hippolytus loves Aricia, her terrified ‘It can’t be!’ as her knees give way and she clutches at a pillar for support, sent a shiver up one’s spine. Hippolytus’s scorn, as long as it seemed to arise from pride or a refusal to sully his purity, could be borne, like hunger or terrible thirst; but when it turns out that its cause is his love for another woman, it becomes a catastrophe of cosmic proportions. Phaedra feels swallowed up by a hopeless despair, as if she has been flung into some infernal pit; she literally feels the ground give way under her feet. The pain of being rejected for another is unendurable.

  Her second attack of hysteria takes place when Oenone, her nurse, tries to comfort her, saying,

  What fruit will they reap from their love? It’s all vain.

  They’ll not meet any more.

  Whereupon Phaedra breaks in with a terrible, savage scream, entirely out of keeping with her position and breeding:

  But they’ll love just the same!

  These sudden changes of tone, from high to low, from regal to common, superbly rendered by the actress, brought home how fragile is the shell of man’s dignity and nobility. There, look, they seemed to say: goad the unsatiated will, throw a pinch of salt and wormwood into the boiling blood, and at once the backbone of sublimation gives way. All the forms and customs developed over generations to clothe our animal nature crumble to dust, and a great lady is transformed into a slut; a proud queen becomes a bitch in heat.

  The atmosphere of the meeting between Hippolytus and Aricia is quite different. It is here that the last spark of hope in the tragedy is briefly kindled. For although events take a turn for the worse and the circle of conflicting claims begins to close in, all is not yet lost; something can still be rescued from the ravages of passion, the fire that rages through the house: their happiness. They can escape together, flee Troezen, now, at once.

  Hippolytus musters all his eloquence to plead with the virtuous Aricia to throw away her hesitation and put her trust in him. It is a beautiful speech:

  Cast off the sad yoke that this house makes you bear.

  Escape with me. Be with me. Follow me. Dare.

  Abandon this putrid and poisonous place

  Where Virtue must breathe an air foul with disgrace.

  Ah, if Madame were to turn to me with such an appeal!

  It dawned on me then that I was seeing this performance, just as I had seen Picasso’s drawings and read Victory and the verses from the Rhine, through the prism of ‘my misery’, as Chopin called a certain love of his. But it was not a matter of deriving emotional thrills from the faint resemblance of the two protagonists to real people: I didn’t try to pretend that I was Hippolytus and Phaedra was Madame or anything like that. Their story was quite different. My fantasies were not grounded in any specific correlation; the drama being enacted on stage merely provided elements for the drama unfolding in my head, and my imagination played with them freely. The result was a sort of projection of my unexpressed daydreams:

  Madame’s father, a bold and restless spirit, an idealist who likes to challenge fate, commits a catastrophic mistake, like Theseus Tartarus-bound. In the throes of madness or persecution mania, flying in the face of common sense and ignoring the warnings of friends, he returns from the wars to his native land, now enslaved by a regime of barbarians from Moscow and governed by their local chums. More horrifying still, he drags along his only daughter, beautiful and proud, born in the heart of the Alps – the daughter whom, as a sign of his trust that Fortune would always smile upon him, he has named Vict
ory.

  The blunder is fatal: the wretched Max-Theseus dies in the dungeons of military intelligence, swallowed up in the pit of Tartarus, while the beautiful Victoire, thrown upon her own resources, is cut off from the world by an impregnable Iron Curtain. At first she is desperate. Then, gradually, like the freeborn Rhine, she tunnels her way to open spaces, in the direction of the setting sun: to the plains of France. After numerous setbacks and failed attempts, she finds an opportunity more promising than any she has encountered so far, for it is singularly connected to the interests of her oppressors: their success in snatching some of those mouthwatering Western morsels for which they are so greedy depends in some measure on whether they restore her freedom to her. That, in short, is how the situation now presents itself. All she has to do is prove her worth as a teacher – in the eyes of a foreign body of judges.

  It is here that the main action of the drama begins.

  The school to which she is sent and which it is her task to reform is – like everything else in this debased, lawless country where Bolshevik tyranny rules – rotten and backward. The teachers are dull, embittered and cynical, the pupils slothful, fractious and of limited intelligence. Working in these conditions is like ploughing ground that has lain fallow for too long. Her life is one of lonely drudgery. No one to talk to, no common language. She is totally isolated.

  In these dark, gloomy, foul backwoods, in the herd of crude, thick-headed youths who are her pupils, she encounters, shortly before she is due to regain her freedom, a young man of rare talent – sophisticated, articulate, charming. He is intelligent, polished and well bred. He is witty – his conversation can be scintillating. Yet at the same time he is curiously shy – sad and withdrawn. He intrigues her. With time he inspires her sympathy and affection. But she conceals these feelings and – like Phaedra – plays the cruel mistress. She avoids all forms of unofficial contact with him, even the most innocent. Sooner or later, she thinks, it would turn against her. Besides, what do her feelings matter! Sentiment is the last thing she needs. And she is leaving soon, never to return; she can’t permit herself such extravagance. ‘He who forms a tie is lost.’ It would be folly.

  But there is more to this unusual pupil of hers. Not only is he a charming young man, but he seems secretly to worship her. He never takes his eyes off her, covertly tries to dig up information about her, smuggles sweet confessions into the essays he is set. And how charmingly, with what skill and ingenuity! It’s quite endearing. Is there anyone else in the world who would set her apart like this? Well, perhaps le petit Frédéric – the son of the man who had been her father’s friend and her mother’s suitor. But what a comparison! Freddy’s lugubrious passion for her is tedious and dreary. It repels and embarrasses her; it leaves her cold. It’s neurotic, hysterical, pathetic. And quite apart from that, how pale is the love of a Man, how unstable and irresolute, how tainted by doubt and uncertainty, compared to the first stirrings of love in a Boy, so passionate and uncritical! At any rate, for someone already past the flush of youth, a mature woman in her thirties.

  He adores her. Worships her! He has built an altar to her! And yet he has so many girls his own age to choose from. It’s flattering and strangely exciting. It makes you want to reach out, acknowledge his love, become an omnipotent goddess for him. It is tempting.

  But it’s out of the question to succumb. It would be far too risky, apart from being dishonest and mean. On the other hand, doing nothing and continuing to play the cold and heartless Ice Queen is no solution either.

  An inner struggle ensues between vanity and responsibility, between the instincts of the heart and the promptings of reason, common sense and discipline. She should do something for him, offer something, but not so as to inspire great hopes. Yes, she could give him some friendly attention, even make him happy – as Hippolytus makes Aricia happy – for an instant, a brief, fleeting moment, inconsequentially.

  She gives him an A. The only one in the whole school. And she passes on his essay to the commission of foreign judges with a suitable note. Who knows – perhaps it will lead to something? Perhaps the chief, Monsieur le Directeur, will notice him – as Professor Billot once noticed the articles of le petit Frédéric – and do something to help him? Offer him a grant, invite him to Paris? But all that lies in the future, and it’s by no means certain. What about now? What can she do for immediate effect? She could single him out on some minor matter, set him apart, show him that she thinks him deserving of her trust. She could send him to her office, with its treasure chest of personal belongings, open and unguarded. Give him the key – as a gesture, a symbolic way of giving him access to her. Say to him, ‘La clé!’ and then, looking him in the eye, hand it to him – with a gesture like that of the Creator in Michelangelo’s fresco.

  And that is indeed what happens. But it doesn’t work; it misses its mark. The play of allusions and metaphors doesn’t satisfy him. No radiant flush of happiness suffuses his face. He is still as he was: downcast, dejected, pained. It will have to be done differently. Take him to the theatre! To see the Comédie Française, which has just arrived with Phèdre. She has an invitation from the embassy; it says valable pour deux personnes. It’s the perfect solution.

  But the hand of Providence, for good or for ill, prevents it. It puts a spoke in the wheels, it muddles things, and in the end her plans are thwarted. She goes to the theatre alone, wasting the other ticket. The place next to her is empty. It must be the only one, at least in the stalls. She watches the performance, regretting that things turned out this way. And when she hears Hippolytus say, ‘Cast off the sad yoke that this house makes you bear,’ and then, a moment later, ‘Abandon this putrid and poisonous place,’ she realises, in a sudden flash, that this is precisely what she should say to him.

  If only he were here, sitting beside her! If only he could hear those words! (She would have made sure to draw his attention to them somehow.)

  But he is there! And he has heard them. He is sitting at the front of the balcony. And when the curtain falls and the applause has faded away, in just a few minutes, they will meet at the cloakroom or at the door of the theatre. All is not yet lost! This play has a happy ending . . .

  This idly spun tale, unfolding somewhere in the recesses of my consciousness, was so enchanting and suggestive that when the play was over, mindless of what I had seen and deaf to the voice of reason, I set off with a firm step to write an ending for it – a real one.

  I retrieved my coat, ran downstairs and, sighting my Phaedra in the crowd besieging the cloakroom, went outside to wait for her there – at the foot of the front steps.

  Suddenly, in the entrance, I saw a radiant Prospero, surrounded by the usual crowd of young admirers. He was evidently discoursing on the performance, for he talked uninterruptedly, stopping every few seconds to re-enact some gesture or pose. I put a few more steps’ distance between us, so that he wouldn’t see me. But he gave me an inspiration. Of course! I should approach her as I had approached him – in verse! This time in alexandrines. Since the ploy had worked so well before, perhaps it would work now, too. Besides, since the scene was supposed to resemble one from a real drama, how else should I speak to her?

  I put my right hand up to my brow (as Constant had a habit of doing), squeezed my eyes shut and tried to concentrate my mind.

  Madame! Est-ce bien vous-même?

  I composed my speech.

  Mais quelle coïncidence!

  Quelle étrange et curieux concours de circonstances!

  The first rhyme released the flow. The words began to come more easily; each reminded me of another with a similar ending, and finally they began to come not in pairs but in threes, even fours. By this mechanism I arrived at the rhyme ‘question-conversation’. It reminded me of something. Of course! That lesson! Just before I’d begun my surreptitious investigation. It cried out to be worked in somehow.

  I tautened the bow of l’art poétique:

  Profitons-en pour faire une conversation;r />
  Pour nous poser enfin quelques bonnes questions.

  Pleased with my efforts, I released my hand’s grip on my brow and opened my eyes. And this was the sight that met them:

  At the kerb, in front of the entrance, was a blue Peugeot, its engine purring, its lights yellow. Its front passenger door was wide open; in the seat beside the driver sat a woman whom after a few seconds I recognised as Mademoiselle Legris. She was gesturing to someone. That someone was Madame, just at that moment coming down the steps. She went up to the car, opened the back door and with a quick, graceful movement slid inside. Two sets of locks clicked, and the car moved off in the direction of Obozna Street. I tried to get a glimpse of the driver, but failed. Probably the director. But I saw the registration plate quite clearly: wz 1807 (the year of Napoleon’s victory over Russia and his creation of a new Polish state called the Duchy of Warsaw). Slightly below and to the left was an oval plate with the letters CD.

  I put my hands in the pockets of my grey coat (one of which also held the programme) and set off slowly, with bowed head, towards New World Boulevard and the nearest bus stop, next to a travel agent’s called Wagons-Lits–Cook.

  Taking Stock

  I was well aware that this latest brief scene in my own live drama (more film-like than theatrical), however painful, had left me relatively unscathed. It could have been worse. What if, in a surge of recklessness, a moment of mad audacity, I had been impelled to act? Waylaid her in the queue for the cloakroom, for example, or (worse) in the foyer? The consequences of such a step did not bear thinking about. And yet, though I knew I had been let off lightly, I could not rejoice in my luck. Something gnawed at me – a sense of disappointment, of something unfulfilled. And an awareness that I was a person – a creature – of a lower category, a lesser breed.